[ Three and a half hours earlier - okay, let's be truthful, three hours and five minutes earlier - when Claude left Paris, his mother had texted him just as he was about to start his old, baby blue Beetle and he'd had to set aside five minutes to discuss with her whether he was or wasn't gonna attend next day's family dinner extravaganza. They'd ended it on, not, but mostly because she got so frustrated with him that she thought he would ruin the mood if he showed up. Backward logic, but he knows his mom, does Claude. She sees him as endlessly capable and intelligent and thus, endlessly capable of making all the choices she would deem right.
It's fucking tiring, that's what it is.
The three hours spent on motorways first east, to Reims, then north, to Luxembourg, went by in a haze of yelling at people stupid enough to pull out in front of him on the fast lane and doing some -- well, math, in regards to Jean Louis. Because maybe Claude can make wrong decisions, sure, but he isn't stupid. He knows Jean Louis' apparently endless income isn't from politics solely, even a minister doesn't make millions. And although they've never discussed money, Claude is French enough to steer clear of that subject entirely, he has eyes. Ears. He can observe things, okay.
Jean Louis has more money than what he'd ever know what to do with and since he isn't from some rich family to back him? It's from somewhere else. Claude knows, politics can be dirty. His mother has been in her fair share of vagueness and voucher scandals and gotten away with most of it. Which is to say, she isn't the worst of them. The worst of them do worse. But Claude doesn't wanna think of Jean Louis as the worst of them. That's not what he sees when he looks at him in the morning and they've just woken up and either one of them wants to touch, that's not how he experiences him. Still, the signs are there and he can't just ignore them any longer. That's not who he is. That's not how he does things.
So, he gets out of his car, parked in the parking lot behind Jean Louis' place, and readies himself for one of those talks. One of those talks that either mend or break. No middle ground. Security lets him in, like he's a shadow, like he's no one, and maybe from their perspective, he is. He doesn't matter. He isn't dangerous.
Is that why Jean Louis, what, likes him? What does that even imply?
Swallowing something down, hard, he exits the elevator and finds himself in that familiar space, halting right inside and listening for the other man. The kitchen. The coffee machine. Heading that way, Claude feels all the built-up tension seep out of him, leaving only the worry behind. Whatever it is Jean Louis is doing it, one way or the other, it could potentially take him away. In the doorway to the kitchen, Claude pauses, smiles, small, hesitant. Jean Louis is preparing two cups. ]
[ Claude's footfalls are familiar now, comfortably so. As soon as the elevator door closes, the apartment changes, as it has done since the very first time the other man stepped foot inside it. The loneliness retreats into the corners, into the walls. The silence breaks, gently.
With a half-smile, he turns to regard Claude in the doorway. He's dressed casually - jeans, a loose-fitting shirt - and like a side-note, he remembers how drunk the other man was last night. He must be quite hung-over today and all the same, here he is, having driven more than three hours. Jean Louis takes one coffee, the other still half-finished, and walks over to him, holding it out. Here, it means, for your trouble.
He looks at him, his gaze traveling slowly up and down his body, taking in every small detail on repeat like he's been starving for him. He doesn't know. It's difficult, knowing what he's craving when he's in business mode, alert and consequently, prepared for everything. Sometimes, he wonders whether he'll be like that constantly one day, a chronic condition like his shoulder and the way his mind seemingly rushes, skittish. Fish-like, almost, dodging instinctually without truly seeing anything but the clear path ahead of you. Whether one day, that'll be all he'll have to trade back to Claude. It feels like the kind of thought that ought to make him at least a little sad.
The blankness makes it hard to tell. ]
Oh, I'm certainly surprised. [ His eyes narrow a fraction. ] Is everything alright?
[ He could respond with things like, I thought you might need company. Or, I missed you. Both would be true, but both would also be dodging the elephant in the room. The picture from last night, the seedy view in the seedy room, a place where Jean Louis shouldn't be, professionally or privately.
The thing is, Claude doesn't dodge elephants. Claude lifts them. Sends them back to Africa or India, where they belong.
So, he takes Jean Louis' offered coffee, the one that means, thank you, and holds it in one hand while reaching into his jacket's front pocket with the other, extracting the little brass goose he'd picked out of his fairy tale collection back home on the way out the door. He's been collecting them since Jean Louis' birthday, he's got eight already, this one was the most fitting for the occasion. Claude stealing geese the night prior. Jean Louis serving him goose now. What a wild goose chase.
He smiles and holds it out on a flat palm. It's not a big one like the witch. ]
Let me trade you.
[ Then, he does the elephant-lifting, because one of them has to address what went the other way last night. After the goose chasing and Claude's displacement in the Bois. Frowning back at Jean Louis' slightly narrowed eyes, he tilts his head to one side and licks his lips, nervously. ]
[ Claude takes the cup and trades him - a goose? Jean Louis stares at it for a couple of seconds, at the small, naive shape of it. It's sitting on Claude's palm like it owns the whole hand, it's tiny beak raised in challenge. The lights from the ceiling reflect along its surface, making it glittery. Distantly, he wonders just how many of those the other man's bought. It's a like a trick every time, Claude, pulling one of those out of his hat, yet another new handful of magic. Swallowing, he takes the goose, fingertips brushing over Claude's hand briefly. Too briefly.
A part of him wants to grab onto his wrist and hold on like they're hanging off a ledge somewhere far above the ground. ]
You didn't need to be.
[ He turns his back on Claude and walks slowly past the kitchen area. He takes the now-finished cup of coffee from the coffee maker and heads for the small nook by the windows, the place that has soon become synonomous with Claude in his mind. There's something about this particular little space that seems to carry him within itself in a way that the rest of the apartment can't quite manage; then again, it's just a lot of empty space, first of all. This warehouse. Both floors. It wasn't designed for Claude's gentleness. He speaks without looking back at the other man, putting the goose on the shelf next to the big-nosed witch. ]
I'm well-protected at all times. [ A glance to the side. His left eyebrow wants to quirk up but doesn't quite manage the entire journey - it becomes a sort of half-waggle, an expression in-between. ] Unlike you.
[ Taking the goose with so much care that it hurts Claude's heart a little bit, Jean Louis grabs his coffee with the other hand and makes his way towards the little nook with the view of the cityscape where they kissed that first night and which has become synonymous with Luxembourg City for him later. But in hindsight, looking around this whole building, how did he afford it? How does he afford the constant security that leaves him 'well-protected at all times'? Government won't pay all that unless he's under active threat.
Following, Claude swallows and shakes his head, it could as well be an inclination of his chin. It doesn't have to mean anything. Except those are the things that could also mean everything.
Who knows, maybe Jean Louis is under constant threat. The scarring on his shoulder and the marks on his body could hint at it, right - but only hint. There's no whole story, it's not "The Goose Girl", you can't read these things as clearly as that. Claude's expression softens as Jean Louis looks at him, his features appearing slightly frozen, like he's not quite in control of the full range of them. Distant. He seems distant. Far away.
Has Claude lost him already? Has he lost him from the very beginning?
His hands curl into fists at his sides and he seats himself while Jean Louis puts the goose next to the witch. The witch who's liberal, the liberal who's him.
Unlike Jean Louis, Claude is vulnerable and exposed. Because he makes himself that way, that's what his mother says, too. He raises his chin slowly now, meets Jean Louis' gaze, refusing to do anything but soften further. ]
I trust you're not gonna do anything to hurt me.
[ It could have been a teasing comment, flirtatious. Instead it's completely genuine, honest, open. ]
[ He pauses, still watching the other man as he seats himself. I trust you're not gonna do anything to hurt me says Claude and for a second, he gets immediately angry, enough for his left hand to clench into a rigid fist. Obviously he didn't mean... but of course, his mind adds, what he's doing is a potential threat to Claude at all times. They'd threatened Emilia, even if there'd been strategy and nothing else behind the words. Illusions, another kind of magic, much more closely related to lies and deceit. He unfurls his hand slowly and turns towards him. In his other hand, the coffee smells like normalcy, like any evening after a long day's work. I trust, Claude says.
He's not a foolish man, Claude. He's seen enough not to be.
He knows well enough to be frightened when there's something to be frightened of. ]
I'm not.
[ His voice sounds far-away. Looking at the other man for a long moment, he finally moves away from the shelf and seats himself opposite him, bringing them to eye-level and it does something to his nervous system, makes him feel like there's another bit of distance, bridged. Unthinkingly, he shifts closer on his seat until he's sitting on the edge of it. Like this, their knees are about a hand's width apart.
I trust.
His voice hardens. ]
No one will hurt you. Not me, not anyone else. [ Pause. Less harshly, the barest tint of humour slipping in: ] Aside from the occasional goose, that is.
[ The moment hangs between them, hard and silent, except for Jean Louis who says, no one will hurt you, not like it's an impossibility by nature, but definitely an impossibility by proximity. I'm here, they won't hurt you, I won't hurt you. There's no denial in that, is there? No trying to convince Claude he's worrying for no reason.
And for some reason, Claude finds comfort in that. In that truth, hanging between them like the moment did first.
Then, the moment disperses, Jean Louis's voice taking on a hint of humour when he talks about the goose adventure Claude went on the night before and he still bears the marks from it, bruises on his upper arms, as well as a sizeable bite mark on the side of his neck. Looks like someone has hickey'ed him. Marked him. He smiles and looks down, catches sight of their knees, inches apart now, because Jean Louis is drifting closer, closer, closer.
He's choosing already, right? That's what it means. That's what it gotta mean. Claude doesn't want it to mean anything else.
So, he looks up and meets Jean Louis' eyes, the hardness in them foreign, but the rest familiar, the deep, dark colour of him, the way he sucks you in and you fall, fall, fall with him. A deep breath and he places his hand, steadying, steadying, on the other man's knee, palm flat, fingers spread out, holding. He leans in slowly.
They're repeating that first night they spent together, where neither of them wanted to be alone, neither of them could take loneliness any longer. This is the replay. ]
The goose got me good. Jean Louis - [ His smile is small, but warm. ] - you should kiss it better.
[ Like that, he turns his head to the side a little bit, exposing the slope of his neck, the line of his whole jaw. Putting on display the huge bruise left on the side of his neck by the goose last night. ]
[ He sets the coffee on the small table near the window. It's not that he can't drink it; right now, it feels like he could probably down anything, trying to re-create the balance between outside and inside. Claude shows him the big bruise on his neck, a marking courtesy mostly of his own stupidity and there's something so sweet and ridiculous about it (innocent, like something you do just because life makes it happen for you because that's the kind of surprises you get in the world Claude inhabits) and when he tells him to kiss it better, for a few seconds he almost can't breathe for the sheer sense of discrepancy. Only hours earlier, he'd been meeting with a man in the backroom of a butcher's shop in Grund, talking checkpoints and timetables. The man is a cop. A cop who's going to ensure that the path through City remains open and uncontested for the Dutch.
In less than three months, the mob is going to kill that cop.
Then, there'll be another person rising in the ranks and from there, they'll have a new board set, new pieces to move, always one step ahead.
With Claude sitting there in front of him, that world - Jean Louis' world, the world he knows with deep, nearly visceral intimacy - feels fake. Like an illusion. ]
Claude.
[ He sounds breathless because he is. It's choking him, somehow, this nameless thing. Wetting his lips, he looks down at the floor, then back up at Claude with his stupid marks and his sweet smile, small, careful, like he understands what he's looking at even though he couldn't possibly, he doesn't have the eyes for it. Slowly, he slips onto his knees on the carpet, breaking Claude's hold on his knee. It's not enough. As far as bridges go, it's little more than a line of rope. Instead, he shuffles into Claude's personal space, between his legs, and runs both hands up his knees, thighs. He looks up at him and stretches for him, folding one hand against the side of his neck and pulling him down (down, that's true, this way is down and to be very, very frank, Claude shouldn't even here, it's not down for him, it shouldn't be).
Then, he leans up and in, mouthing a path along the line of his jaw, over his neck. He's breathing too fast already; fuck, but right now, he wants to disappear within him. Any way he can, any way Claude will let him. ]
[ There's a moment, a long moment, hardened, harsh, where he thinks Jean Louis won't take it, his offered hand, his offered neck, whatever part of your body ever offers anything, because he is looking down and he's quiet, the silence stretches on between them. It stretches on for a second that feels like tens of thousands. So, Claude is about to straighten up again, keeping his hands on the other man's legs because he isn't letting go, he's just leaving him with whatever room he needs, to do whatever he wants, because Claude decides many things, but this thing, this one thing, he can't decide. Only Jean Louis can and it's frustrating, it makes him almost as angry as it makes him sad. Not at Jean Louis. Never at Jean Louis.
There's a world around them, after all.
Except, as Jean Louis drops to his knees in front of him, crawling in between his legs, hands on his knees, up along the hard slope of his thighs in the thick denim fabric of his jeans, he realizes that it isn't that Jean Louis won't take his hand, or his neck, or any one part of his body. It's because, as always, always the liberal, one isn't enough, he wants it all. He needs it all. The way he says Claude's name, deep and rusty and with so many layers, Claude doesn't even fucking know where to begin, okay, means help me, help, help and Claude cares about the world, he does, but he just happens to care about Jean Louis more, right?
And that's why, when Jean Louis pulls him down on his level, it doesn't feel like down, it feels like home and that should definitely worry him, he should ask a million questions, but he can't even hear himself over the quickening of Jean Louis' breathing as he comes closer, leaning in and mouthing his way over his jawline, his neck, wet and hot and Claude hears him, he hears him.
Help me.
Swallowing hard, Claude reaches up blindly and threads his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, the slick-back style coming undone at his touch, like he's pulling him apart a little, and he might be. He might be the thing that stands between Jean Louis and whatever money laundering, what does he know, drug cartel, dirty papers business he's got going. Just like when he was seventeen, and this comparison should scare him more than any of the rest, he feels himself grow completely drunk on the knowledge, the certainty of being that special to someone else. Being the only one of his kind.
He wants to be that for Jean Louis. He wants to be the hand, and everything between hand and head.
With a slight exhale, hard, fast, he turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis' head, nose burying in against the bangs at his temple, the scent of him sharp and recognisably him. Claude hears himself, too, he hears himself say, ]
Yes.
[ The intonation doesn't imply, question. It answers. ]
[Claude runs his fingers through his hair, stroke after stroke, and the way it's going all over the place makes something in his chest tighten. Take me apart, he thinks but doesn't say, he wouldn't ever, you invite that kind of shit into your life, you might as well flop down onto your back and let them have a go at you. He thinks about the Netherlands, about Rotterdam and the smell of metal and ozone. The drugs, boxed and ready and his right-hand man (Ezio's, in truth) tasting it on the tip of his tongue. Buono, he'd said and waved his hand, joining Jean Louis moments later and waiting for his silent nod of approval. It was a good deal. It was even worth slashing a line down the middle of his country.
A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]
[ Turning his head in against Claude, their mouths find each other and Jean Louis is kissing him, pressing in between his lips and it's so fucking smooth, so effortless and Claude is feeling dizzy just from the pace of it, how fast they're going. He likes fast. He likes dangerous. This feels dangerous, but also familiar at the same time, and he's aching for that exact combination of elements. He's looking to be pulled into that reality, the dark, looming thing standing over Jean Louis, guarding his back, though honestly Claude is beginning to think there isn't really anyone who has Jean Louis' back, not in politics, not in whatever else he's got going for him.
Claude knows, perhaps by choice, though most people would never choose that, would they, that Jean Louis is alone. Well, as alone as you can be when you've got Claude latched onto your lips, sucking on your tongue, biting your full lower lip.
That alone, never more than that. Claude won't allow it.
He groans as the other man pulls out of the kiss and sinks down on his knees fully, on perfect crotch-height and Claude feels more than he actually notices that his cock is filling a little. He breathes in shakily as Jean Louis doesn't ask, but implores, maybe there's a hint of begging to that, although there's no question mark, and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs more, invitingly, showing himself off.
Opening up. Take me, it means. Take this instead.
The petty, still overly worried part of him wants to ask if he doesn't let Jean Louis do enough already, if they won't reach a point of consequence eventually, a borderline not to be crossed, but his body doesn't care and his cock is very quickly half-hard, so Claude leans forward a little, running one hand through Jean Louis' hair again, caressing the back of his head. You give too much of yourself, his mother had texted him angrily earlier. Claude had told her, like any good socialist, there is no 'too much', only the amount that people need to live. That's the limit. There. Hearing himself breathing in shakily, he smiles and stretches enough to kiss the other man's temple, before sprawling back in the chair fully. ]
Please do.
[ You give too much of yourself.
No, Maman. If he gave enough, he wouldn't doubt it, this moment between them, he wouldn't doubt Jean Louis, he wouldn't doubt himself. Wouldn't wonder why he wants to give Jean Louis so much of himself that he'll never need to own anything else again, ever.
Since that's apparently a fucking challenge, yeah, with such a fucking liberal witch. ]
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It's fucking tiring, that's what it is.
The three hours spent on motorways first east, to Reims, then north, to Luxembourg, went by in a haze of yelling at people stupid enough to pull out in front of him on the fast lane and doing some -- well, math, in regards to Jean Louis. Because maybe Claude can make wrong decisions, sure, but he isn't stupid. He knows Jean Louis' apparently endless income isn't from politics solely, even a minister doesn't make millions. And although they've never discussed money, Claude is French enough to steer clear of that subject entirely, he has eyes. Ears. He can observe things, okay.
Jean Louis has more money than what he'd ever know what to do with and since he isn't from some rich family to back him? It's from somewhere else. Claude knows, politics can be dirty. His mother has been in her fair share of vagueness and voucher scandals and gotten away with most of it. Which is to say, she isn't the worst of them. The worst of them do worse. But Claude doesn't wanna think of Jean Louis as the worst of them. That's not what he sees when he looks at him in the morning and they've just woken up and either one of them wants to touch, that's not how he experiences him. Still, the signs are there and he can't just ignore them any longer. That's not who he is. That's not how he does things.
So, he gets out of his car, parked in the parking lot behind Jean Louis' place, and readies himself for one of those talks. One of those talks that either mend or break. No middle ground. Security lets him in, like he's a shadow, like he's no one, and maybe from their perspective, he is. He doesn't matter. He isn't dangerous.
Is that why Jean Louis, what, likes him? What does that even imply?
Swallowing something down, hard, he exits the elevator and finds himself in that familiar space, halting right inside and listening for the other man. The kitchen. The coffee machine. Heading that way, Claude feels all the built-up tension seep out of him, leaving only the worry behind. Whatever it is Jean Louis is doing it, one way or the other, it could potentially take him away. In the doorway to the kitchen, Claude pauses, smiles, small, hesitant. Jean Louis is preparing two cups. ]
You're not an easy one to surprise, you know.
no subject
With a half-smile, he turns to regard Claude in the doorway. He's dressed casually - jeans, a loose-fitting shirt - and like a side-note, he remembers how drunk the other man was last night. He must be quite hung-over today and all the same, here he is, having driven more than three hours. Jean Louis takes one coffee, the other still half-finished, and walks over to him, holding it out. Here, it means, for your trouble.
He looks at him, his gaze traveling slowly up and down his body, taking in every small detail on repeat like he's been starving for him. He doesn't know. It's difficult, knowing what he's craving when he's in business mode, alert and consequently, prepared for everything. Sometimes, he wonders whether he'll be like that constantly one day, a chronic condition like his shoulder and the way his mind seemingly rushes, skittish. Fish-like, almost, dodging instinctually without truly seeing anything but the clear path ahead of you. Whether one day, that'll be all he'll have to trade back to Claude. It feels like the kind of thought that ought to make him at least a little sad.
The blankness makes it hard to tell. ]
Oh, I'm certainly surprised. [ His eyes narrow a fraction. ] Is everything alright?
no subject
The thing is, Claude doesn't dodge elephants. Claude lifts them. Sends them back to Africa or India, where they belong.
So, he takes Jean Louis' offered coffee, the one that means, thank you, and holds it in one hand while reaching into his jacket's front pocket with the other, extracting the little brass goose he'd picked out of his fairy tale collection back home on the way out the door. He's been collecting them since Jean Louis' birthday, he's got eight already, this one was the most fitting for the occasion. Claude stealing geese the night prior. Jean Louis serving him goose now. What a wild goose chase.
He smiles and holds it out on a flat palm. It's not a big one like the witch. ]
Let me trade you.
[ Then, he does the elephant-lifting, because one of them has to address what went the other way last night. After the goose chasing and Claude's displacement in the Bois. Frowning back at Jean Louis' slightly narrowed eyes, he tilts his head to one side and licks his lips, nervously. ]
I was worried about you, Jean Louis.
no subject
A part of him wants to grab onto his wrist and hold on like they're hanging off a ledge somewhere far above the ground. ]
You didn't need to be.
[ He turns his back on Claude and walks slowly past the kitchen area. He takes the now-finished cup of coffee from the coffee maker and heads for the small nook by the windows, the place that has soon become synonomous with Claude in his mind. There's something about this particular little space that seems to carry him within itself in a way that the rest of the apartment can't quite manage; then again, it's just a lot of empty space, first of all. This warehouse. Both floors. It wasn't designed for Claude's gentleness. He speaks without looking back at the other man, putting the goose on the shelf next to the big-nosed witch. ]
I'm well-protected at all times. [ A glance to the side. His left eyebrow wants to quirk up but doesn't quite manage the entire journey - it becomes a sort of half-waggle, an expression in-between. ] Unlike you.
no subject
Following, Claude swallows and shakes his head, it could as well be an inclination of his chin. It doesn't have to mean anything. Except those are the things that could also mean everything.
Who knows, maybe Jean Louis is under constant threat. The scarring on his shoulder and the marks on his body could hint at it, right - but only hint. There's no whole story, it's not "The Goose Girl", you can't read these things as clearly as that. Claude's expression softens as Jean Louis looks at him, his features appearing slightly frozen, like he's not quite in control of the full range of them. Distant. He seems distant. Far away.
Has Claude lost him already? Has he lost him from the very beginning?
His hands curl into fists at his sides and he seats himself while Jean Louis puts the goose next to the witch. The witch who's liberal, the liberal who's him.
Unlike Jean Louis, Claude is vulnerable and exposed. Because he makes himself that way, that's what his mother says, too. He raises his chin slowly now, meets Jean Louis' gaze, refusing to do anything but soften further. ]
I trust you're not gonna do anything to hurt me.
[ It could have been a teasing comment, flirtatious. Instead it's completely genuine, honest, open. ]
no subject
He's not a foolish man, Claude. He's seen enough not to be.
He knows well enough to be frightened when there's something to be frightened of. ]
I'm not.
[ His voice sounds far-away. Looking at the other man for a long moment, he finally moves away from the shelf and seats himself opposite him, bringing them to eye-level and it does something to his nervous system, makes him feel like there's another bit of distance, bridged. Unthinkingly, he shifts closer on his seat until he's sitting on the edge of it. Like this, their knees are about a hand's width apart.
I trust.
His voice hardens. ]
No one will hurt you. Not me, not anyone else. [ Pause. Less harshly, the barest tint of humour slipping in: ] Aside from the occasional goose, that is.
no subject
And for some reason, Claude finds comfort in that. In that truth, hanging between them like the moment did first.
Then, the moment disperses, Jean Louis's voice taking on a hint of humour when he talks about the goose adventure Claude went on the night before and he still bears the marks from it, bruises on his upper arms, as well as a sizeable bite mark on the side of his neck. Looks like someone has hickey'ed him. Marked him. He smiles and looks down, catches sight of their knees, inches apart now, because Jean Louis is drifting closer, closer, closer.
He's choosing already, right? That's what it means. That's what it gotta mean. Claude doesn't want it to mean anything else.
So, he looks up and meets Jean Louis' eyes, the hardness in them foreign, but the rest familiar, the deep, dark colour of him, the way he sucks you in and you fall, fall, fall with him. A deep breath and he places his hand, steadying, steadying, on the other man's knee, palm flat, fingers spread out, holding. He leans in slowly.
They're repeating that first night they spent together, where neither of them wanted to be alone, neither of them could take loneliness any longer. This is the replay. ]
The goose got me good. Jean Louis - [ His smile is small, but warm. ] - you should kiss it better.
[ Like that, he turns his head to the side a little bit, exposing the slope of his neck, the line of his whole jaw. Putting on display the huge bruise left on the side of his neck by the goose last night. ]
no subject
In less than three months, the mob is going to kill that cop.
Then, there'll be another person rising in the ranks and from there, they'll have a new board set, new pieces to move, always one step ahead.
With Claude sitting there in front of him, that world - Jean Louis' world, the world he knows with deep, nearly visceral intimacy - feels fake. Like an illusion. ]
Claude.
[ He sounds breathless because he is. It's choking him, somehow, this nameless thing. Wetting his lips, he looks down at the floor, then back up at Claude with his stupid marks and his sweet smile, small, careful, like he understands what he's looking at even though he couldn't possibly, he doesn't have the eyes for it. Slowly, he slips onto his knees on the carpet, breaking Claude's hold on his knee. It's not enough. As far as bridges go, it's little more than a line of rope. Instead, he shuffles into Claude's personal space, between his legs, and runs both hands up his knees, thighs. He looks up at him and stretches for him, folding one hand against the side of his neck and pulling him down (down, that's true, this way is down and to be very, very frank, Claude shouldn't even here, it's not down for him, it shouldn't be).
Then, he leans up and in, mouthing a path along the line of his jaw, over his neck. He's breathing too fast already; fuck, but right now, he wants to disappear within him. Any way he can, any way Claude will let him. ]
no subject
There's a world around them, after all.
Except, as Jean Louis drops to his knees in front of him, crawling in between his legs, hands on his knees, up along the hard slope of his thighs in the thick denim fabric of his jeans, he realizes that it isn't that Jean Louis won't take his hand, or his neck, or any one part of his body. It's because, as always, always the liberal, one isn't enough, he wants it all. He needs it all. The way he says Claude's name, deep and rusty and with so many layers, Claude doesn't even fucking know where to begin, okay, means help me, help, help and Claude cares about the world, he does, but he just happens to care about Jean Louis more, right?
And that's why, when Jean Louis pulls him down on his level, it doesn't feel like down, it feels like home and that should definitely worry him, he should ask a million questions, but he can't even hear himself over the quickening of Jean Louis' breathing as he comes closer, leaning in and mouthing his way over his jawline, his neck, wet and hot and Claude hears him, he hears him.
Help me.
Swallowing hard, Claude reaches up blindly and threads his fingers through Jean Louis' hair, the slick-back style coming undone at his touch, like he's pulling him apart a little, and he might be. He might be the thing that stands between Jean Louis and whatever money laundering, what does he know, drug cartel, dirty papers business he's got going. Just like when he was seventeen, and this comparison should scare him more than any of the rest, he feels himself grow completely drunk on the knowledge, the certainty of being that special to someone else. Being the only one of his kind.
He wants to be that for Jean Louis. He wants to be the hand, and everything between hand and head.
With a slight exhale, hard, fast, he turns his face in against the side of Jean Louis' head, nose burying in against the bangs at his temple, the scent of him sharp and recognisably him. Claude hears himself, too, he hears himself say, ]
Yes.
[ The intonation doesn't imply, question. It answers. ]
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A part of him knows all of this.
But most of him knows Claude now, the smell of him, the warmth of his breath as he buries his nose against his temple and he wants that. He doesn't care about what he knows. He cares about what he wants. Groaning, he turns his head in turn and catches Claude's lips along with that small yes, his willingness. He presses into his mouth, filling him up, their tongues gliding together wetly and the feel of it isn't nearly enough but it's good, regardless, which is one of the greatest contrasts between Claude's reality and his own. In his world, nothing's good enough. Nothing's enough.
In Claude's, even a small percentage of something greater feels immense.
He runs his free hand up between Claude's legs, curving his palm over his crotch and feeling him out beneath his jeans. Yes, he said. Yes, presumably, to whatever the fuck this is, Jean Louis' mind speeding by like a coked-up chicken, but not necessarily to everything it implies. You can't presume with him. You mustn't.
Claude is a treasure.
He pulls out of the kiss, sinks onto his knees more fully and tilts his head upwards, catching the other man's gaze. ]
Let me suck you off.
[ Can I. He doesn't quite manage to actually ask. It's not that kind of night. ]
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Claude knows, perhaps by choice, though most people would never choose that, would they, that Jean Louis is alone. Well, as alone as you can be when you've got Claude latched onto your lips, sucking on your tongue, biting your full lower lip.
That alone, never more than that. Claude won't allow it.
He groans as the other man pulls out of the kiss and sinks down on his knees fully, on perfect crotch-height and Claude feels more than he actually notices that his cock is filling a little. He breathes in shakily as Jean Louis doesn't ask, but implores, maybe there's a hint of begging to that, although there's no question mark, and leans back in the chair, spreading his legs more, invitingly, showing himself off.
Opening up. Take me, it means. Take this instead.
The petty, still overly worried part of him wants to ask if he doesn't let Jean Louis do enough already, if they won't reach a point of consequence eventually, a borderline not to be crossed, but his body doesn't care and his cock is very quickly half-hard, so Claude leans forward a little, running one hand through Jean Louis' hair again, caressing the back of his head. You give too much of yourself, his mother had texted him angrily earlier. Claude had told her, like any good socialist, there is no 'too much', only the amount that people need to live. That's the limit. There. Hearing himself breathing in shakily, he smiles and stretches enough to kiss the other man's temple, before sprawling back in the chair fully. ]
Please do.
[ You give too much of yourself.
No, Maman. If he gave enough, he wouldn't doubt it, this moment between them, he wouldn't doubt Jean Louis, he wouldn't doubt himself. Wouldn't wonder why he wants to give Jean Louis so much of himself that he'll never need to own anything else again, ever.
Since that's apparently a fucking challenge, yeah, with such a fucking liberal witch. ]